


"I'd give a lovely lintar... to know the thoughts going around in there"

by DaddyDrac



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Best Friends, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Geralt is a moron, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pining, Regret, truly an imbecile
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaddyDrac/pseuds/DaddyDrac
Summary: "He... died!" "Weh, he's fine" Jaskier remembers the exchange as he sees his wolf fall, and he knows, with every inch of his being, that he is /not/ fine .
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 214





	1. He'll leave now

**Author's Note:**

> Renfri in this story will be mentioned only through a flashback- it wasn't planned, but when I was banging my head on the table (not really) to think of a title, this fell to mind because Geralt's mind isn't really an open book. But then I decided to use it in the story too, and that would remind Geralt of Renfri, and now she will have her small part in the fic through flashback and discussion. And honestly, the poor girl deserves it. I will write a fic for her too, because there is so few of them for her and Geralt and that is a travesty, a true crime I am telling you.

„I’m not your friend“   
„Oh, really? Oh, you usually just let strangers rub camomile onto your lovely bottom?“  
„ ...“

His denials of friendship, regular and crude, always slid right off the slippery bastard’s back. The bard was glad to ignore them, not believing them for one second and he even would use them as an excuse to yap back at the Witcher, reminding him of all the times when they did in fact act as friends. And oddly enough, butts seemed to play a major part in it. Both his and the bard’s. 

Despite all the buts and butts, the Witcher knew that the bard wasn’t aware that he wasn’t denying the friendship to spite him, he was doing it to remind himself. Geralt didn’t think that Jaskier was a mean or manipulating person, and as such he was sure that the small human did in fact fancy himself a friend. However, what Geralt knew and the current predicament proved, was that Jaskier kept by his side for pretty stories and protection. He may be fond of the Witcher, but he was not a friend. If the things ever turned sour and Geralt was no longer of use to him, his canary would fly away. It was a sad thought, and exactly what he was thinking of as Jaskier sat at the edge of the tub and cooed:

„Ooh, yeah, that face! Ohh. Scary face“ 

It was sad, and Witchers had no business being sad, but there Geralt was, insulting Jaskier’s sausage placing skills and wishing that he actually had a friend. 

„Anyway you are not going tonight as a witcher“ first he steals his ale, then he steals his clothes. He was an inconvenient yappy mutt and why in the fuck did Geralt put up with him?

Bard stuck around. For years. Even after the djinn incident. Geralt wasn’t sure if the dumb bastard even realized that it was Geralt’s fault he got cursed to begin with. Geralt wanted to apologize, but if the asshole truly didn’t know, he didn’t want to enlight him and inspire him to leave. He stayed by his side, running circles around the witcher like an excited fawn, and it made Geralt’s lips twitch upward. Rarely, after they’ve both had far too much drink, Geralt would burst into laughter, which would then be accompanied by drunk as fuck Jaskier screaming to the skies how he made the great white wolf howl. His triumph would then make Geralt laugh all over again, and Jaskier would join him. Throaty, booming barks of laughter and long gasping wheezing, both undignified and without a proper cause behind them, Two morons, two imbeciles, and he so wished it could have been two friends.

’Well, he’ll fucking leave now’ he thought to himself when he fell face first into the mud. He couldn’t move, body paralized by the venom. It took them by a surprise and without his elixirs, not even his mutated body could withstand such an attack. Wendigos usually didn’t have any venom, this one must be some wicked half breed, or a nature’s mistake and a mutant. At least Jaskier would get away. The wendigo was starving and Jaskier small. With Geralt’s much bulkier physique, the bard will have enough time to run away while the hungry monster rips him apart and feasts on him. Killed by a wendigo in less than a minute of battle, what a joke. Jaskier will at least make a pretty ballad out of it, lie through his teeth. Jaskier... Jaskier was screaming like a girl. He groaned into the mud, wishing to at least be able to die without Jaskier’s theatrics hurting his ears, and feeling the wet soil invade his mouth and nose. He’ll suffocate soon, he realized as Wendigo bit onto his leg and he barely felt any pain. His lungs burned, and just as consciousness mercifully left him, he thought he heard singing.


	2. The unusual

„Hey, hey. Easy, you’re fine. You’re alright“ 

The words he heard came to him as from far away, but the more the bard spoke, the more he understood. The immediate panic lessened in his blood, and he stopped fruitlessly fidgeting, trying to calm his breathing. The hand on his shoulder did nothing to stop the deeper, more potent horror that was setting into his bones at rapid pace. 

„Jaskier“ he rasped „Jaskier, I can’t move“ his eyes were shut tight, burning behind his lids as he struggled to keep his breathing even. Fear of death was something that was beaten, trained and banished from trainee witchers years before they actually had a chance to go into true battle, but something must have gone awry because Geralt was terrified. It wasn’t mere death that scared him, no, it was the way he’d leave the world. He lifted his hand and found he could only do it for a second or two before it fell back down, his muscles aching in exhaustion. He flexed his fingers, curled them into a fist, short nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. So weak, immoble, he was nothing but a sack of meat waiting for some monster or the other to rip him apart piece by piece. And all but paralized, he wouldn’t be able to offer any struggle, no reason for the senseless creature to kill him first and spare him the agony. 

He didn’t want it to hurt that much. He didn’t. 

„It’s alright. When it first bit you you could barely breathe. Now you can turn your head and toss around. The venom will lessen, you will move again“ Jaskier replied, putting his palm to witcher’s forehead to try and feel for fever. Finally, Geralt opened his eyes, They hurt, but they work, and he sees that his canary is sweaty and muddier than ever, but also well. He doesn’t seem hurt, there is no pain in his eyes, only worry. 

’Worry for me’ Geralt thought, and he spared a small fraction of his racing mind to feel warmed by the fact. 

„What happened?“ he asks finally, forcing himself to be still. Jaskier’s posture relaxes slightly at that, and Geralt is glad the human cannot hear his frantic heartbeat the way he hears his. He cannot worry the canary, and he cannot bring himself to allow fear onto his face. He swallows the bile that threatens to spill past his throat and he tastes mud on his teeth and tongue. He makes a face, and Jaskier is immediately putting a waterskin to his lips. 

„I’m sorry. You landed face first into the mud, chum. I washed out your mouth and nose and eyes the best I could but I guess it is up to you to rinse“ he babbled as Geralt runs the water around his mouth and then turns his head and spits. He didn’t turn far enough, and some of the muddied water makes to his shirt. Jaskier pretends not to notice. He’s kind.   
„I cleaned your wounds with alcohol and bandaged them, but I didn’t want to experiment with all that witcher stuff you carry at the sadle. Could you-“ he is interrupted, Geralt’s voice urgent and showing more panic than he did when he just woke up and found himself immobile. 

„Where’s Roach?!“ he looks around, but in his lying position it is hard to keep see in the distance. 

„She’s here, Geralt! I’d never leave her and who do you think carried you away from the swamp? I hardly could! Here, let me help you...“ He takes Geralt by the armpits and pulls him up, gently dragging him a bit backwards until his back are resting against a tree. In that position he can see Roach, who neighs softly when their eyes meet. He closes his eyes and signs in relief, bringing his hand to his abdomen, leaving it there as he finds it is too much effort to move it. 

„Good girl“ he mumbles, and hears Jaskier agree. His lids are heavy as much as his hands, and it is not due to the paralysis. 

„As I was saying, could you tell me what in your goodie bag I have to give you? Do I need to make you something? I could...“ words bleed into each other and Geralt finds it too hard to untangle them. Fuck, he’s tired. So tired...

Jaskier slaps him. Even in his weakened state it feels like a fleabite, and Geralt can’t decide if it is because he’s tough or because Jaskier is that weak. The sheer surprise of it makes him open his eyes: Jaskier never hit him before, not even in a joke. 

„Focus, Geralt. What is the cure? I need to know what to give you“ Jaskier’s hands are on his shoulders, man’s face inches from his own and his eyes wide with urgency. There is a stench of human fear in the air, as well as human waste. Gross. 

„Glass bottle. Blue potion“ he says finally, letting his chin fall to his chest. He must have dozed off because there is no way the potion just magically appeared in Jaskier’s hand without him moving from in front of him. Jaskier tilts his head backwards and gently helps him swallow the cold blue liquid, which is thick like hot pudding instead of rare like water. 

„There. You can rest now“ Jaskier tells him, gently, so gently, and he helps him down into an unusually soft bedroll and covers him with unusually warm furs and before Geralt loses himself to sweet black waters, he feels Jaskier kiss his temple.   
He stayed. 

The potion is meant to work quickly, within minutes. Geralt should have rested for a few hours, but the venom itself should have been nullified within minutes. So why it is, the witcher wonders, that he woke up at crack of dawn, bloody vomit in his throat and mouth and nose and unable to move still? Roach neighs as his body convulses in more than just need for air, and Geralt thinks that the universe must truly be itching to have him suffocate. He tilts his head to the side, some of the vomit and blood spilling from his mouth down his cheek, neck and into his hair, but he still can’t breathe. He blows through his nose, trying to clean that at least, and his efforts are for naught but Jaskier’s aren’t. The man must have been sleeping to have took so long to come to his side, pulling him upwards and hitting him strongly in the back, allowing Geralt to vomit into his lap and not into his own airways. 

He heaves, relishing having breath in his lungs, and clings to Jaskier’s arm helplessly as bard’s other hand now rubs gentle, comforting circles into his back. His wounds hurt, his throat and nose burn, and before he knows it or understand what’s happening, Geralt of Rivia starts sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a thing for bodily fluids. Nothing kinky or anything, but I like keeping things gritty and hey, in sickness and in health, right? And Geralt is /very/ sick :D


	3. We're in!

’No’ Jaskier thought to himself as he rocked Geralt back and forth ’you don’t get to be the scared one. Not now. He needs you’. Even crying seemed to hurt his wolf, as the man struggled to keep them in. Yet the sobs kept on coming, wrenching free against his lips, and that seemed to upset him even more. Jaskier’s was frantically trying to think of something, anything, that he could do to comfort Geralt, yet all that came to mind didn’t seem to fit. His first instinct would be to sing, yet he knew it would hurt Geralt’s feelings even more. The ridiculous man would take it as a wound to his pride, thinking that one must be a child in order to deserve a lullaby, and that needing one as a man grown means one is weak and pathetic. Humming didn’t seem as such offense to Geralt’s pride, yet there was little worth in it, and of course Jaskier had no intention to try and shush the man, tell him to stop crying. Geralt didn’t need to be reminded to bottle up his emotions, he was already trying to do that, if the hiccups between the sobs were anything to go by. 

„It’s alright“ he said suddenly, knowing what needed to be said; what Geralt probably never heard once since his earliest childhood. „Cry. Go ahead, Geralt, let out it. As long as you need. I’m here“ 

Another unguarded sob escaped his lips, and then another, but after awhile the witcher stilled in his arms, breathing ragged with emotion and face hidden by his long hair. He kept his head down, without a doubt trying to avoid looking the bard in the eye, but Jaskier couldn’t let him sulk while covered in tears and vomit and blood. He set him against the tree once more and returned with a waterskin and a rag. He first cleaned his friend’s face- or tried to, at least. The damn brute kept looking away and trying to avoid his touch. Finally, he had enough and grasped him by chin. 

„Now now, stop your boorish evasion of cleanliness“ he said with cheer in his voice. It didn’t truly reach his eyes, and he knew Geralt could see it, but talking to the man as if he was an injured fawn was sure to keep him in sorrow and foul mood. He needed a sense of normality. Jaskier needed to be his strength whether the witcher knew it or not, wanted to accept it or not. He stilled, finally, and Jaskier could run a damp rag over his skin properly. He also gave a bit of a treatment to his hair, as vomit clung to some of the tresses persistently. And after he brought the waterskin to his friend’s lips and Geralt washed out the taste from his mouth, he spoke again, this time softly. 

„So I am guessing the antidote didn’t work“ 

Geralt watched as the bard spoke, all fawn eyes and fringe across his forehead. He offered a grunt in protest, and decided to save himself at least some pretense of dignity. 

„If that potion didn’t work, nothing else I have will“ he said, seeing bard’s eyes widen in panic „And nothing you could find in this shit piece forest will, either“ he added impatiently, knowing what the idiot was going to propose. 

„Don’t be an idiot, there must be something we can do. I’ll get you a healer. I can’t take you like this to a village, they’d kill us both, but if I lure a healer here-“ Geralt scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

„You’ll what, Jaskier? Lure them here and beat them with a stick until they heal me?“ finally, blessed silence. 

„Take one of my daggers. Use it, and leave with Roach.“ this time he felt the slap more keenly, and growled as his head was flung to the side. „Damn it Jaskier!“ 

„Damn you to seven fucks! I am not going to- to- what the fuck, Geralt?! You’re proposing that I- No! I am not killing you, you insufferable, noble, idiotic beefcake buffoon! You moron!“ 

„You wanted to know what happens when witchers retire. They die. They slow and get killed and now it is my turn“ Geralt sneered „Unless you fancy leaving me here to greet the maggots alive, you’d be wise to use that fucking dagger.“ 

„No“

„You stayed. Brought me here. Was it all to just leave me to see my legs rot to mold and woodline rats? Or do you want to drag me around a deadweight sack indefinetely? Tales of friendship be damned, I never thought you hated me that much“

„Tales of- fuck you, Geralt. I am doing neither of those things. You- fuck you. I am not a hateful cunt just because I refuse to put you down at first sign of trouble.“ 

„You-“

„Shut up. Let me think“ Jaskier settled himself next to the witcher, legs crossed and brows furrowed. He rest his elbows on his knees, and Geralt could see vivid hand shaped bruises on his forearms. Big, big enough to be by his own hands. 

„We’ll go to Kaer Morhen“ bard declared, and missed the look of astonishment from the wolf next to him „You told me of Vesemir. He must know something, be able to help. There is no better place to heal a witcher than a witcher’s keep“ 

„We’re weeks from Kaer Morhen“

„Oh, is that your way of saying ’Good grief Jaskier, did you just propose something better than ending my life after not a full day of exploring our options? My, how smart you are! I will heed your advice but pretend that the time it will take us to get there is worse than dying!’“ he snickered, and this time, the laugh was honest „Boy I’m good. Imagine the tale! Ohh ho ho, Geralt, once we finish this I’ll make such a ballad that the Lioness of Cintra will demand it be sung at her funeral! It will echo through the Continent in centuries to come, yes! The great adventure of white wolf and- and- I'll there when I get there. No matter, it will be perfect! Ohh we’re so doing this. We’re in!“ 

„Fuck off bard“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a relatively short thing, 3 chapters top, but fuck I sealed my fate by adding the whole Kaer Morhen thing! And I already slipped and planned Renfri flashback, and if you look, Ciri is now a character too and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there it is. This was just a small introduction to kick things off, I think the other chapters will be longer- I just wanted a quick way to establish what an idiot Geralt is and to kick things off with the wendigo attack. Sorry if Geralt is OOC, this is my first fic for The Witcher and I only watched the Netflix series!


End file.
